


Collected Tumblr Drabbles

by avawtsn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All chapters stand alone, F/F, M/M, pertinent tags and rating are inside the chapter summaries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-01-25 10:37:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1645610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avawtsn/pseuds/avawtsn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes I write things that don't go in larger works. Sometimes they're not really meant to be part of larger works, though sometimes I lose steam with a piece and it falls to pieces after a few short paragraphs. Either way, I wind up with these short snippets of works which can be rather fun, and I like them, so I put them here. That's the plan, anyway.</p><p>This will be updated only sporadically; I expect a few months at a time. So if you're author-subscribed to me, don't worry about getting spammy updates to this. And if you're looking for the latest, I suggest either <a href="http://avawatson.tumblr.com">my main tumblr</a> or my <a href="http://avawtsn.tumblr.com">writing sideblog</a> -- where, incidentally, you're free to come chat with me. I don't bite. Not on the first ask anyway.</p><p>And as always, thank you for reading, commenting, kudosing, and being amazing. <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Reichenbach, pre-slash, not series 3 compliant. Sherlock POV. Rated Teen. 420 words.
> 
> Abandoned, sorry to say, first crack at the “snowed in” prompt for [9th challenge](http://letswritesherlock.tumblr.com/post/70322942026/challenge-9-winter-ficlet-challenge-twelve) for [LetsWriteSherlock](http://letswritesherlock.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://avawatson.tumblr.com/post/70389891588/the-snowed-in-prompt-for-letswritesherlock-led) on tumblr.

"No. Oh no. Absolutely not," John says, hands gesticulating with unnecessary vehemence. "I am not staying here the night. Not here. Not tonight. God, I  _knew_  it was a mistake to come here.”

"John, I didn’t exactly concoct the worst snowstorm London’s seen in thirty-five years just to lure you to a surprise slumber party," Sherlock says with an eye roll. "I daresay even Mycroft couldn’t pull that off. Not for another few years, anyway, global carbon dioxide levels being what they are," he adds. "Don’t tell him I said that."

"Sher—" John starts, before biting off his first draft of the diatribe that will follow. "Sherlock, you’ve only just come back from the dead a few weeks ago. I was only meant to be here for tea, maybe a pint, a friendly ‘happy holidays’ and a kiss for Mrs. Hudson. I was  _not_  meant to take up my old room and stay here like we’re old buddies!”

Sherlock sighs, brows knitted together in frustration. “Yes, John, I was — thank you — present for the entirety of the initial invitation I extended to you to come round two weeks ago, the postponement you made the week last, the last hour when you arrived — late — and then the last seven minutes when the announcement came that the Underground is shutting down effective immediately and roads have been deemed unsafe for nonessential travel. And if you have any better ideas about how you should while away this evening that do not involve you being in a fully furnished, heated bedroom with a clean, made up bed with  _your old sheets_ , then do let me know. As a genius, I do so love to be shown the error of my ways. I’ll be in my usual seat,” Sherlock bites out, taking particular satisfaction in clicking his tongue on sea _t_.

John makes a sound like that overgrown furry alien in one of the fantasy films he had them watch years ago and stalks into the kitchen. Sherlock hears the angry opening and shutting of cabinets, the clinking of glass on the counter, and liquid pouring. A satisfied slam back into the counter.

Ah. The Hibiki then.

"You’ll want to open that up with a splash of water and sip more slowly, John. It’s a 21 year old whisky, not a kamikaze shot," he calls out in the general direction of the kitchen.

"Yes, thank you for your input. Here’s mine: you can sod  _right_  the fuck off, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock smirks to himself and flips the channel back to Jeremy Kyle.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Femlock, i.e. fem!Sherlock and fem!John (Jane). Technically uni!lock as well. Sherlock POV. Rated Mature. 740 words.
> 
> Beginnings of a PWP, hence the rating.
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://avawatson.tumblr.com/post/74920010459/i-started-a-femlock-pwp-a-while-back-maybe-posting). Meant to be part of a larger PWP, but has not yet been continued or found a home in a different fic.

Sherlock’s mind is made of ants. A roiling mass of tiny black sentient flecks of thought, outwardly appearing to move as one but in fact moving independently and in all manner of organized chaos upon closer inspection. Threatening to disperse to the winds or devour acres of farmland in their wake, whatever the hive mind happens to fancy. And it is threatening to crawl out of her skull.

She needs a cigarette.

And Jane isn’t even home to fetch her any. Or is she?

“Jane?” Sherlock calls out, freezing for a moment.

Silence.

She looks out the window: quickly greying, nearly sundown. She goes back to rolling her thumbnail over the seam of her dressing gown and resumes pacing.

An alkali, she could find a strong alkali to experiment with, test her hypothesis about the rusted-through gutter that collapsed half of that Hertfordshire woman’s garage last week.

“Sherlock.”

Alkali, alkaline, alkalescent. Potassium, calcium hydroxide, potassium hydroxide. A home laboratory potash?

“Sherlock.”

Saponification: a possibility. Ventilation might be an issue. Should schedule it for while Jane’s at school. Damn. That means postponement until Monday. Sherlock checks her watch. What the devil day is it?

“Sherlock Holmes.”

Magnets, perhaps. Magnets don’t smell. Jane won’t mind. Better: electromagnetism. Brilliant: pacemakers. Need a test subject. Several, ideally. The Hooper girl? She does autopsy rotations at Barts if memory serves. Of course memory serves. Sherlock imagines Jane’s scowl, frowns in response. Still: no use in experimenting on anything but a human cadaver; it isn’t as if she could get something smaller, more portable. They don’t insert pacemakers in dogs or cats. Do they? Sherlock pauses, files it away in a back room of the mind palace. Live subject also a possibility: more risk, more scowling, but easier to find. Consent an issue? Could just pop into a queue at Sainsbury’s and —

“I’m going to sit on your face until you can’t breathe.”

Sherlock stills.

Slowly, she turns toward the kitchen and finds Jane, bags of groceries laid out on the table behind her. Long day at the shops, threads of her favorite jumper stretched at her side: jostled by a woman, large-ish, cat owner. Jane’s lips: coated with a fresh application of lip gloss. Chapped. Nippy outside. Sherlock fingers the hem of her dressing gown, readjusting.

“Wh—you’re going to wh-what now?”

“I said, Sherlock Holmes, I’m going to sit with my bum and twat in your face until you are unable to respire comfortably.”

Sherlock stares. She rarely stares, she  _observes_ , but now she stares. Jane. The line of her mouth, the creases in her forehead: normally she would say it was lack of sleep (Sherlock knows it’s at  _least_  lack of sleep, mentally running through this morning’s mishap with the flare gun) but it’s not just that, not  _evidently_. Something else also. An unknown variable. Something new. Something…dangerous, even. Sherlock swallows.

Jane stalks toward Sherlock. There is no other word. It isn’t casual or light, but measured, full of intent. Were she in hiding, it would likely be  _prowling_  but Jane isn’t hiding. It’s nearly predatory, but not as tense as a hunt. It’s confident. It’s settled. It brooks no argument.

Sherlock shivers, suddenly aware of how warm the flat is.

Pausing before her, Jane raises her hand, almost casually, and lightly drags the pads of her fingertips under the lapel of Sherlock’s dressing gown, pulling the silk away from her body. The fabric makes a soft susurrus of protest over Sherlock’s camisole, and Sherlock feels abruptly sensitised to the slow drag of cloth, the tactile sense of friction over her skin.

For the first time in days, Sherlock feels like she is fully seated within her body.

“Lay down for me.”

It can’t…it can’t be that easy, can it?

“J-Jane?” Sherlock manages. Sherlock, who never stutters, doesn’t get outmaneuvered, and won’t ask questions she doesn’t want the answer to.

“Yes, Sherlock,” Jane says, tone very nearly genial. For a moment, she keeps her hand lightly in the folds of Sherlock’s dressing gown and then she lets the fabric slip completely. “I’m going to the bedroom. Want to get out of these clothes. You have five minutes to meet me in there.”

“…or?” Sherlock ventures. She has to know.

“Not finding out will be punishment enough, Sherlock.” Jane clicks the  _ck_  in her name with particular glee and disappears into the bedroom.

Sherlock evens out her breath and follows her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PWP. Sherlock is a total size queen of a bottom. Rated Explicit. 230 words.
> 
> Prompted/egged on by the smut muse to end all smut muses, [Bea](http://johnstached.tumblr.com), who coined the term "supermassive blackhole Holmes".
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr [here](http://avawatson.tumblr.com/post/77927097667/johnstached-avawatson-replied-to-your-post).

"Is this why," John grunted out between thrusts, "you deleted the solar system?" On the next slide in, he slipped in his middle finger next to his forefinger and cock, stretching Sherlock that much wider.

Sherlock scowled, or growled; difficult to tell from John’s vantage. He always got to a certain level of ambiguous delirium when John had stretched him out enough, battered his abused hole until neither of them knew if he was shuddering out of pleasure or pain or something in between.

John removed his hand from Sherlock’s hip (smirking internally at the fingertip-shaped bruises forming there all over again) and wrapped his fingers around the curls at the back of his head for leverage. Sherlock’s spine curved beautifully to it, the long column of his neck exposed and tensed as fingers tightened in his hair.

"Next time," John gritted out, driving home brutally. "I’m leaving the dildo in you when I fuck you."

Every muscle in Sherlock’s body went taut as he rammed himself backward onto John’s cock and two fingers, holding himself there. A strangled noise deep in his throat thrummed against something primal and alpha in John, and every pulse of Sherlock’s orgasm was a kind of bodily confirmation that yes,  _this was exactly what you wanted, I’m giving you exactly what you need._

John, always polite, let him ride the aftershocks before starting up again.


	4. the alphabet game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys play a wordgame. It's very Cabin Pressure-inspired, yes. Rated M? 200 words.
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr [here](http://avawatson.tumblr.com/post/78481530754/the-alphabet-game-a-johnlock-ficlet).

Are you up for a game?

By any chance do you mean the alphabet game?

Canny, but then it is your favourite.

Don't pretend you don't enjoy it too.

Every time, because you are an adorable child at heart who wishes his older brother had never left the country estate for Eton.

For god's sakes, don't bring Mycroft into this.

Got a bit of a little brother complex there, hm?

Have I?

I think you do.

Just you wait til this game is done.

Knowing you, you'll throw acid in my bed in the name of an experiment.

Likely.

Much looking forward to seeing you try.

Not how you'll feel when I'm done.

On second thought, you know how I respond to threats.

Pitched high and railing about the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers?

Quip all you like, but you'll be regretting that later.

Really don't think so.

Sorry to disappoint.

Tad full of ourselves, are we?

Understating is more like it.

Very curious to know why you think that.

Why else would I start the alphabet game while wearing my favourite butt plug?

X-rated kinks are hitting below the belt.

You're one to talk about cheating, Mr. Stockings and Suspenders.

Zippers need to be undone NOW.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rimming PWP. Rated Explicit. John POV. 1k words.
> 
> May well get picked up and put in a different fic, but currently have no plans for this. Originally posted [here](http://avawatson.tumblr.com/post/82727768335/i-was-in-the-mood-to-write-rimming-porn-this-morning) on tumblr.

John wets his lips and sets his mouth on Sherlock’s perineum. It’s a taut bit of muscle, but John sucks on it gently, strokes it with his tongue as softly as if it were Sherlock’s tender lips. The sound Sherlock makes is one of shock, a sharp sucked in breath that rumbles low in his diaphragm and then loses steam as it escapes him. It ignites something deeply satisfying low in John’s guts when Sherlock sways on his knees a bit and drops his head between his shoulders. His next exhale sounds broken and laboured, and John would bet money that Sherlock’s hands are in tight fists, given the tension that’s running through his back.

"Shh, it’s okay," John soothes, and it comes out so quietly that he’s not sure Sherlock heard him at all. But some of the tension in him loosens all the same and John rumbles an appreciative, encouraging purr into Sherlock’s hot skin.  _Shh, beautiful. Let me do this for you._

John himself feels like he’s slipped underwater. He breathes carefully and evenly, faintly surprised at his own level of control when his brain is struggling with which of the fifteen things he wants to do next. His mouth, on the other hand, seems to be working on instinct, responding as it is to Sherlock’s body, attuned to the tiniest sounds he’s making.

Meanwhile, John doesn’t even have words to think of the input that he  _is_  getting, doesn’t have the higher brain function to work through the signals. John is hyper-aware of Sherlock’s musk as his nose comes up right against Sherlock’s hole, and it feels primal and intimate on a molecular level. He doesn’t have the words, but they’re chemically communicating all the same; pheromones, scent, sweat. John’s nerves are tingling, on the edge of drowning in it, and he can barely imagine what Sherlock must be feeling. He nudges up, keeping his face in contact with Sherlock’s skin to telegraph what’s happening next.

Carefully, John ghosts his tongue across Sherlock’s hole. What little tension had diffused out of the man comes back when Sherlock exhales nearly violently in response. Sherlock’s back rounds as John repeats the motion, tongue firmer this time. John finds his hands have planted themselves on either side of Sherlock’s arse, holding him in place, and he senses the faintest tremor as he points his tongue and lets it just rest in the centre. He waits a beat, then two, and above him, Sherlock sounds like he’s choking back a sob. At that, John pushes in, fingers digging into Sherlock’s flesh.

There’s a moment where it feels like Sherlock’s body won’t give in, won’t let John in, but it passes with a satisfying hot slide of tongue past the outer ring of muscle. Sherlock breathes noisily above him, choked off and fighting back something much louder trying to claw out of his chest. Past the first stubborn ring of muscle, Sherlock is fascinatingly soft, the heat of him is intoxicating. John takes a wider grip of Sherlock’s arse cheeks and lifts them apart for better access, and that action alone sends a wanton moan through Sherlock.

With Sherlock’s cheeks parted, John licks further into him than before, tongue hungry and firm, exploratory but confident. And something above him seems to give. Sherlock relaxes, spine bowing down, the most tremulous push backward into John’s face, onto John’s tongue.

John’s brain sizzles with thoughts he wants to whisper straight into Sherlock’s mind. _That’s it, love, that’s it. Does that feel good? You feel brilliant like this, gorgeous._  This act, John thinks as he plunges further, stretching Sherlock wider, is so intimate. And yet they’re so far from John being able to coo soothing words into his ear that something inside his chest clenches at the unfairness. All the same, John thinks the words as his tongue probes deeper, hoping some of it comes across and settles into Sherlock in whatever headspace he’s in.

_God, please feel this, how much I want you. You’re fucking perfect like this. Just let me take you apart, let me have you, let me in. Perfect, Jesus. Yes, rock back into me. God, moan louder, let me hear you. Let Mrs. Hudson hear you, I don’t care, forget about everything else. I’ll work for it, I’ll do anything. Sherlock. Sherlock._

John’s own breath sounds noisy in his ears, and he wishes he could quiet himself if only to listen to Sherlock more. He pulls back, withdrawing his mouth completely, and feels the air immediately cool where saliva has spread messily down his chin and around his mouth. In the dim light, he sees a full body shiver overtake Sherlock and realises he must be feeling the same thing. John smiles to himself, a wet rubbery smile and closes his mouth over Sherlock’s hole again, and Sherlock’s broken moan is all the reward he could ask for.

Licking around the ring of muscle, more relaxed this time, John lets himself have a self-indulgent moan before he pushes in again. He finds his fingers kneading Sherlock’s flesh, index fingers and thumbs just about framing his mouth, the workspace that Sherlock’s skin’s become. His right thumb slips downward as Sherlock makes a jerky move backward onto John’s tongue, and the finger grazes his perineum, pushing at it as John tries to right his grip. In turn, Sherlock lets out a near-shout, which strikes a flash of want so deep inside John that he nearly cannot breathe.

Deliberately this time, John presses his thumb firmly onto Sherlock’s perineum, and Sherlock  _keens_ , high and breathy and gorgeous. Working on autopilot, John moves south and plants his mouth over that band of muscle. His left thumb replaces his tongue inside Sherlock and he presses the broad flat of his tongue up against Sherlock’s perineum hard and  _sucks_. The angle is difficult and John’s going to feel the strain in his bad shoulder in the morning, but Sherlock’s answering shout is worth every fiber snapping in his body at the moment.

John abruptly flops down onto the bed, between Sherlock’s legs, facing up. His thumb has slipped out of Sherlock, but he repositions his middle finger there now. Then he thinks better of it and sucks on it, wetting it, before replanting it right at Sherlock’s hole but not pressing in.

"John?"

John cranes his neck and looks up at Sherlock, who is still on all fours and looking lost. Trepidation is settling in and clearing up his high flush and glazed over eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-slash, not particularly series-compliant (series 1, 2, OR 3). Sherlock POV. Rated Teen. 120 words.  
> Sherlock learns something new about John all the time.  
> Originally posted on tumblr [here](http://avawatson.tumblr.com/post/85944066694/john-gets-some-petty-update-about-one-of-his).

John gets some petty update about one of his countless exes (probably facebook; good for ex-stalking voyeurism, that). A fresh picture, an embarrassing status update; it’s _something_ , Sherlock’s deduced, because John’s been smothering his own giggles ever since he checked his computer.

He maintains decent relationships with most of his exes, but this afternoon he’s harshly suppressing smiles and catching himself sniggering, so there’s guilt in there too. It’s childish, this gleeful streak, and petty: pure schadenfreude. And Sherlock’s irritated to be in the dark on anything childish, gleeful, and petty. 

"What happened, she get dumped by the man she left you for?"

John shakes his head.

"She got fat?"

"God no, why would I even—"

"What then?"

John grins ruefully. “He went bald.”

Sherlock drops his pipette.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are dance lessons at 221B leading up to the wedding. S3 compliant, if angsty and pining. Pre-slash. Alternating POV. Rated Teen. 380 words.
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://avawatson.tumblr.com/post/85055741329/johns-bad-shoulder-itched-tight-from-disuse-it) on tumblr, along with the fanart, also by me.

 

John’s bad shoulder itched. Tight from disuse. It had been too long without the adrenaline of a case, the kickback of a pistol. It wasn’t meant to be held stiff and still, buffering gentle pushes as Sherlock led him and tried to teach him to lead. This  _onetwothreefouronetwothreefour_ , this, he was rubbish at. But he was choosing it nonetheless, and the choosing was important.

God but it ached though. It wasn’t a matter of proximity, he knew, because Sherlock was overly pedantic and teaching him the Proper Way to dance. They were formal, chests a safe distance apart as they moved; it was really only their legs that brushed up against on another as John attempted and failed to box step in time with Bach.

Sherlock’s feet were exposed as always, toes strangely kinetic, legs infuriatingly graceful. John felt bad every time he stepped on Sherlock’s feet, especially in his shoes, but Sherlock didn’t complain. He was being shockingly good about the wedding planning, the dance lessons, and Mary. Shockingly quiet and accepting, helpful even; solicitous. And these weren’t things that Sherlock Holmes was. He didn’t work that way. Wasn’t wired that way.

John rolled his stiff shoulder, lost the beat, and watched himself step on Sherlock’s big toe for the fifth time.

-

John looked down at his shoes too much; preoccupied, as per usual these days. But Sherlock was allowed so few moments to gaze at John with his lashes lowered like that, Sherlock didn’t correct him overly much on that account. He allowed himself that.

“ _Quarter_  turns,” Sherlock murmured under the tinny laptop music. 

"Hmm?" John intoned, distracted.

"Quarter turns, John. You finish in the same position you start in."

"Yes," John said softly, eyes turned away, darting all over 221B and its clutter. Again with those lashes. Perhaps Sherlock should clean up next time John comes over. "Yes, all right." Voice barely audible, as if not to disturb the music, and looking down at his brogues again. He was quiet; thinking of the wedding. Worried. He needn’t have done; Sherlock was helping, would continue to help, whatever John needed. With Mary too, since John was so worried.

Sherlock’s gaze flitted away and rested on the skull, thinking of cigarettes and more. Yes, he’d clean. He could do that for John.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PWP. Rimming ficlet. There's just something about the way Sherlock says -- or doesn't say -- John's name. Rated E. 1.1k words.
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://avawatson.tumblr.com/post/90223228379/rimming-ficlet-i-dont-even-know) on tumblr.

"Juh—"

John has the simplest name in the world, he knows. It’s one of the first things he learned about his own name: it was his and it was boring. One of the simplest, most common names on the face of the planet. When he got older, he learned only slightly more interesting things about it: it means God is gracious, the Lord’s mercy. In its verb form in the original Hebrew, it refers to the heartfelt response by someone who has something to give one who has a need. Someone told him that when he went into medicine. A little bit older, and he’d had a girlfriend who read linguistics and she told him it was a palatalised consonant, the J sound. And most recently, when he was much,  _much_  older, it became the single most interesting sound he’d ever heard, the best name he could have hoped for, at least when it was coming from Sherlock’s lips and the genius was having  _such_  problems even getting through the one measly, boring syllable.

"John, I can’t, John, J—" Sherlock breaks off to push forward again, emptying the rest of his breath in something between a sob and a scream in the pillow beneath him. Sherlock’s cock slides into a dark cold stain in the bed sheets as his legs give out. A visible shiver runs through him. John pulls back and clicks his tongue. 

"Mm, no, baby, come back here," he says. "You can, you can, shhh." The words come out soft, but he grips Sherlock hard by the hips and guides him back up off the bed. Sherlock goes willingly, pliable, if shaky, his exhale quiet and watery as his cock drags over the sheets and lifts back up again. He props himself back up on all fours and hangs his head between his shoulders, a pronounced tremble going through his thighs.

The pause works and it doesn’t; John’s hungrier than ever, heady with the sight before him. The deep dip between Sherlock’s scapulae, the curls plastered to the nape of his neck, the bend of his spine as he offers up his arse to John.

John drags his tongue over Sherlock’s sweaty skin, breathing him in slowly. "Good boy, that’s it, you can do it," John soothes, sliding a hand under Sherlock’s heavy ballsack and giving his cock a gentle stroke. The touch is light, the grip soft, not half enough to give him what he needs, but Sherlock whines like he’s never wanted anything more. There’s something about it, that sound, that takes John apart, that drives him to possession, and he has a half-felt apology on his lips as he drives his tongue back into Sherlock’s hole with vengeance. 

John’s fingers slide down Sherlock’s shaft, fit themselves in a tight circle at the base of Sherlock’s cock and hold him there. It’s a punishing grip, but Sherlock is good; he stays still and steady. His breathing grows loud and ragged in response, almost in time to the pulsing of his hole around John’s tongue. John points and flattens his tongue, flattens and points. He laps and licks and soothes and sucks until the tremble in Sherlock’s thighs gratifyingly worsens. And then with a sob, a sound like he’s giving up on keeping back any part of himself from John, Sherlock widens his stance until his cock just hovers above the bed, arse turned up into John’s face like a gift.

Saliva coats John’s chin and nose; he can feel it cooling when Sherlock teeters forward and down. John chases the movement, digs his mouth into Sherlock’s arse until he can feel the strain in his shoulder and it burns satisfyingly.

John licks and laps like a man starved, sucking at Sherlock’s hot skin and taut muscle that wants and doesn’t want to give, and he’s rewarded with the most wonderful sounds from Sherlock’s throat. Palatalised consonants, a drunk sounding  _J-, Juh-, Jaw-_ , over and over again, cut off at the sweet middle of the most boring name on earth. Sherlock hasn’t gotten to the N in his name in a good four minutes, and it makes John feel unstoppable, greedy, like he could take apart Sherlock’s body with his mouth for the rest of his life. The way his name breaks apart on Sherlock’s lips, the way Sherlock sobs instead of exhales; if 221B were on fire, John might still not stop.

Sherlock keens, his baritone going wispy and high at the end, airy and needy and feeding something endlessly hungry inside John. John can’t keep back an appreciative moan, feels the vibrations go through the gluteal muscles. And Sherlock, good boy that he is, moans so loudly, John feels it in his teeth. John has to crouch further to get at him now, but it’s all right; it’s good. Such a good boy, held still by John’s hand like this, spreading himself for him like this. John tongues him until his jaw muscles strain, his shoulder burns, his back aches. Sherlock pants and sobs through the assault, but stays still, good boy, perfect; just held still by John’s hand and mouth.

John’s almost lost in a haze of heat and skin when he feels Sherlock’s hand wrap over his and drag John’s grip over his cock. The stroke isn’t demanding, but all the same John relents and pulls; enough then, he’s been good, so good. John grips tight, gliding his thumb over Sherlock’s slit and spreading preejaculate in its wake. Sherlock’s cock is slick in his hand, the foreskin sliding smoothly and readily. The  _sound_  it pulls from Sherlock’s mouth is worth it: a broken breath, a sob of John’s name, and then a held, choked off yell as Sherlock comes almost violently, pulsing gratifyingly in John’s hand, contracting around his tongue. Sherlock comes and comes and John’s drunk with it, savouring the shivers wracking through Sherlock’s body, memorising and re-memorising the sensations of it on his tongue, against his lips, in his hands.

Finally, Sherlock slumps onto the bed and doesn’t move for a moment. John’s hand slips off, and by some instinct or another he takes his hand with Sherlock’s come on it and starts lazily stroking his cock with it, watching the sweaty backside of Sherlock’s body as he does. 

Sherlock comes to the realisation of John’s movements slowly and then sits up abruptly, curls wild where they aren’t damp with sweat. 

"John," he says, voice raw and low, before bending down over John’s cock. It’s a question and a demand and a statement of intent. John’s hand comes to a stop and lets go.

"Yes," John answers, eyes fluttering closed as Sherlock’s mouth closes around him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very short ficlet, just a snapshot of a PWP bedroom moment. John powerbottoms and Sherlock falls apart just a bit. Rated E. 190 words.
> 
> I forgot about this one, so this one's chronologically a bit out of order with the rest of these chapters, sorry!
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://avawatson.tumblr.com/post/77904898364/you-are-such-a-tease) on tumblr.

“Just give me,” John said. “Just give me a moment. I’m. I need to calm down a bit.”

Sherlock waited. He looked down and watched his cock spread glistening wetness over John’s stomach as they breathed out the wait. When he thought perhaps he should grab more lube, John moved forward all of a sudden, lined up before Sherlock could get a handle on what was happening, and sank down onto him.

“Fuck,” Sherlock gritted out, the curse pulled from his lips.

John grinned but was moving with purpose now. “Let you in on a secret. I’ve always loved when you curse.”

He felt his eyebrows shoot up. “You do?”

“Surprised you never deduced it before,” John said, moving faster, breath already ragged again. “You would’ve used it against me by now if you had.”

Sherlock couldn’t so much respond as hang on, fingers cupping John around his iliac crest. John bounced in Sherlock’s lap, clearly caring less and less about what that may look like. His lower jaw was slack while tension remained in his upper lip, and god if Sherlock’s mind palace was threatening to flood with sensory overload.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PWP ficlet where nobody comes. Johnlockary, i.e. John/Sherlock/Mary. For the prompt "post-Sign of Three pre-Last Vow John/Sherlock/Mary" by anon. Pegging, blowjobs, implied virgin!Sherlock, implied hugedick!John, Mary POV. Rated E. 1.1k.
> 
> I started accepting ficlet prompts, and boy did that open up things I had no idea people wanted _me_ to write. So...nonny requested johnlockary and I thought I should at least attempt it. I did always say that I had nothing against orgies and, to me anyway, I still very much write emotional johnlock, even when someone else is involved.
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://avawatson.tumblr.com/post/91847986415/prompt-should-you-choose-to-accept-it-all-i-really) on tumblr.

One of the first things John opened up to Mary about was how Sherlock was to live with. Quiet, deathlike in his contemplation, and then roaring to life: a flurry of mouth and movement, a raging tantrum, a string of deductions, and a midnight run across the rooftops. Mary read that between the lines anyhow; it’s not as if John used those exact words. John Watson was almost emphatically stoic with his words, even for a man, even for an Englishman. You could tell as much from his blog, which was, after all,  _about Sherlock_. But talking about Sherlock, even a good year and a half of him being dead at that point, there was a bit of poetry stuck in the centre of John’s chest, trying to escape and not finding a form. You could simply tell from his eyes, expressive where his words failed him. 

So when John came back from his stag do with trouble beyond a hangover in his eyes, it was obvious to Mary that this was going to happen. Mary could see it even if John couldn’t. 

Well, maybe not this  _exact_  thing. A week ago, all her sex toys were brightly coloured and battery powered, and now she not only owns a hulking black strap on, but she knows how to do up the straps of the harness all by herself. A week ago, she was yelling at Sherlock about place settings for the wedding, and today she’s shushing him by stroking down his sweat-slick ribcage as she eases in another centimetre.

She also maybe didn’t foresee Sherlock being such a moaner in bed, but then she seriously doubts that even Sherlock would have predicted that. And she knows  _John_  would never admit to thinking about how Sherlock Holmes would sound in bed. Not outside this bedroom, anyway.

"Shh now," Mary soothes, barely audible over Sherlock’s moan. "John’s even bigger than this and you’ll want to be ready for him, won’t you?"

Sherlock quiets immediately, the hissing, heaving quality of his breath reined in under control for the moment. Another breath or two and he pushes backward on all fours, pushes back against Mary, who’s holding the dildo steady, just steady and still, for him. She holds a hand underneath, where bollocks would be if she had any, forefinger and thumb steadying her silicone cock, and feels a surge of satisfaction at the heft, the push, the noise Sherlock’s filling the air with. And she doesn’t feel bad at all that Sherlock’s doing most of the work. 

Sherlock goes achingly slowly, but the backward push is steady, relentless. It’s fascinating to watch from Mary’s perspective: shiny black thing disappearing into Sherlock’s pink hole. It’s oddly satisfying to watch this obviously synthetic thing stretching out Sherlock’s vulnerable flesh, all that taut, ungiving muscle. It looks like a magic trick, just a bit: hard to tell if the dildo is physically moving into Sherlock or simply shrinking before her very eyes, the slide is so smooth with slick. But Sherlock is breathing heavily again, exhales as good as whimpers.

John rises up to his knees, his cock bouncing in mid-air as he does. Another few inches and he could close the distance between that cock of his and Sherlock’s mouth, but he leans forward and runs his fingers through Sherlock’s curls instead. His hand rests on the back of Sherlock’s nape, which arrests Sherlock’s backward progress onto the dildo. She can see Sherlock look up at John but not his expression.

"Are you okay?" John says, voice soft. Eyes fixed on Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock doesn’t seem to have the words, or none that Mary can hear. His head tilts though, toward John’s hand, cheek rubbing as close as he can get it to John’s wrist.

"Are you in pain?" John asks.

Sherlock shakes his head no, and John’s hand drops. John settles in front of Sherlock more steadily, knees planted apart for stability.

"Could maybe use a distraction though?" John asks the question slowly but Sherlock’s already nodding, body starting to slide forward on the dildo toward John before John gets through speaking. 

"Ah ah," Mary tuts and presses forward a couple inches just to remind Sherlock what’s really going on here. Sherlock whimpers in response and lets his head drop between his shoulders, the deep vee of his scapulae sending an odd thrill down her spine. Mary pulls out an inch or so and starts pushing in again, slowly. 

John moves forward on his knees and cups Sherlock’s cheek. That dark head of curls cranes upward again to look at John, and Sherlock’s breathing goes noticeably quiet again. John’s thumb in his mouth. 

"What kind of distraction could you use?" John says, quieter than ever.

There’s an exchange of looks between them that Mary can’t see, and John wraps his hand around the base of his cock to steady it and bring it to Sherlock’s lips. Mary can’t see Sherlock’s face, so she looks at John’s, Sherlock’s body’s length between them. His eyes flutter closed and he bites his lower lip — no, is stuck on an F-sound, a curse that he can’t quite form his mouth around yet.

Mary pushes forward a bit faster, pulling a moan from Sherlock she’s sure John can feel in the base of his spine, and finally she’s fully seated. It’s a faster pull out and Sherlock’s moaning in that telltale way, one she’s not used to hearing in baritone registers, flesh in his mouth to muffle it. Slowly, she builds up a pace, pushing in, pulling out, pushing in.

Watching John like this is fascinating. She’s a bit divorced from the pleasure of this act that they’re in; for her, it’s not physical, not yet. And John’s face is and isn’t the face she’s familiar with when he’s with just her. She never gets this vantage on it, doesn’t get to see blown pupils and lustful face angled away from her. John, so expressive, and in this he’s guileless, just raw need barely held back by an old fashioned sense of bedroom decorum. His eyebrows are alternately knitting together and then rising, just at the centre, and he looks like butter waiting for a knife. In another context, this would be his incredulous face, but with his eyes closed and his bottom lip tucked under his teeth. His face is wide open, his pleasure there to be drunk in by anyone with eyes. He isn’t thinking of anything, just feeling, and he looks like Sherlock is doing something  _delicate_  to him with his mouth, that normally sharp and biting mouth. And god if it doesn’t make her want to fuck Sherlock harder, hard, to see exactly what it does to John’s face.


End file.
